


Reclamation

by silverlined



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Gen, the problem of erik stevens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 07:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlined/pseuds/silverlined
Summary: he can’t leave the apartment.it’s hard to tell how long he’s been here, the glowing violet and blues outside the window never changing. he doesn’t get hungry, thirsty or tired - only soul deep weariness at the unchanging walls.his father comes and goes, the same sorrowful eyes and broken voice, asking the same question.“What is Wakanda to you?”betrayal, he tells his father. abandonment.a fairytale.only once does he ask the question back.“Home.”it’s a long time, or perhaps no time at all, before n'jobu comes again.





	Reclamation

he can’t leave the apartment.

it’s hard to tell how long he’s been here, the glowing violet and blues outside the window never changing. he doesn’t get hungry, thirsty or tired - only soul deep weariness at the unchanging walls.

his father comes and goes, the same sorrowful eyes and broken voice, asking the same question.

“What is Wakanda to you?”

betrayal, he tells his father. abandonment.

a fairytale.

only once does he ask the question back.

“Home.”

it’s a long time, or perhaps no time at all, before n'jobu comes again.

 

beneath the woven hangings, next to the assault rifles and bullets, he finds his father’s notes. the paper is as crisp as the day it was written.

the pages he keeps in his vest are worn thin and grey, ink running in waterstained splotches.

 

he opens the door once - turns each of the four locks, the tumblers falling into place like small earthquakes. outside is the same dingy hallway and doors that repeat, without end, the number on each door the same.

he doesn’t try again.

 

sometimes his scars itch.

he ignores it. there’s nothing to be done.

 

there’s a knock at the door.

he startles. his father comes and goes like he is always here, a static flicker. he’s never come from the outside.

another knock, soft but steady.

time passes, measured in the gentle rap on the door and his heartbeat, the unneccessary breaths sharp and fast.

he opens the door.

“Cousin,” t'challa says, and steps inside.

 

they fight.

the furniture is overturned, hangings ripped from the wall. they crash into the guns, sending them spilling, bullets underfoot.

they fight, young men once again, and he revels in the stretch and burn of muscle, the bright stinging pain of blood flowing. the warmth of another beneath his grappling hands. skin against skin.

they fight and he wins, faster and stronger and more vicious - he pins t'challa down and snarls, mouth panting wide, teeth bared and ready to gnash and tear and bite.

“Cousin,” t'challa says and he’s soft, soft, too soft.

he lets t'challa up.

 

they talk. or perhaps more accurately, t'challa does.

they are children, eight and ten, and he’s idly holding a basketball in his hands, the tread worn smooth and soft. his cousin speaks of miracles, like sweet clean air and wide open spaces and serious wounds that don’t end in death.

fake, he scoffs.

“No,” t'challa says and they’re eye to eye, now. he has a knife in his hands, white knuckled from the strength of his grip, but t'challa only smiles at him. “We have learned. This is something everyone should have.”

 

t'challa doesn’t stay - leaves through the front door and returns the same way, a gentle knock and always waiting.

he never looks past t'challa through the doorway.

there’s nothing out there anyway.

 

he speaks.

t'challa listens.

 

they fight.

the blood of the panther is strong in both of them, burns through them like a bright sparking grass fire.

in the aftermath, he forgets to move away. lets t'challa’s heat soak into him, lets himself soften.

he lets himself touch without first landing a blow.

 

“Cousin,” t'challa says. “Isn’t it time you came home?”

 

he opens the door.


End file.
